Remember When 3: The Finale (Remember Trilogy #3)

by Torrest, T.

He crammed a fist into the front pocket of his jeans as he laughed. “Well, who do you think did all this?”

  “I thought you hired somebody. When did you do this?”

  He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Middle of the night. You have no idea how much self-control it took not to throw pebbles at your window.”

  I smiled, reminiscing at the sweet memory. “You really did this? You’re such a jerk!”

  “Call me crazy, but I was expecting a different reaction.”

  That made me laugh. “No, I meant I was just sitting here trying to think of something awesome to do for you, and you go and beat me to it.”

  “Guess I’m just more awesome than you. Why? What was your plan?”

  I bit my lip. “It may have involved an electric guitar-playing clown singing ‘Paradise City’.”

  “Damn. I would’ve liked to have seen that. Can we pretend I didn’t do this leaf thing?”

  “Like I could ever forget this.” I jumped down from the tree and stood in front of him, feeling almost shy as I did so. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  Holy balls! He really was! It felt like way longer than just twenty-four hours since I’d seen him. I’d already gone into withdrawals. So much had happened in that time. So much still needed to happen before we could be okay. But I knew we would make things right. We’d get through it eventually; it just didn’t have to be right then. Because right then, he was actually standing there in front of me.

  All I ever needed from him was him.

  We stood there, staring into each other’s eyes as he spoke. “Look. I should’ve noticed that you were having a hard time out there. I should have put all those girls in their place for trying to make you feel second-rate. I should have stood up for you about that magazine cover; should have gone and kicked Fields’ ass instead of letting you think you needed to do it on your own. And I get why you made that deal. I get it now. I’m sorry you—”

  “Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at ‘Damn the birds have gotten huge’.”

  He looked at me in barely contained hysteria, his lips pursed together, stifling a laugh at my Jerry Maguire.

  Oh, now I just needed to break him.

  I exaggerated a shaky voice to repeat, “You had me at ‘Damn the birds have gotten huge’.”

  At that, he cracked the hell up, and I joined him before wrapping my arms around his neck and planting a big, sloppy smooch on his laughing mouth.

  Trip pulled back, his hands smoothing up and down my arms. “You’re right about how that outside stuff doesn’t mean anything. The only thing that matters is us. Screw everything else.” He brushed a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting mine in a sheepish grin to add, “We also need to stop relying on singing telegrams and Skittles and leaves on a tree to show what we should be telling each other instead. I guess I’ve always been afraid to put myself out there like that. I can jump off an exploding building, but telling you how I feel has always been even more terrifying. So I relied on things to tell you instead. If I had told you that day in your apartment… If I had just come right out and said that I loved you, you wouldn’t have had any doubts. But instead, I sent that stupid lunchbox to tell you for me.”

  “If I hadn’t been so dense and insecure, I would have heard you.”

  He smiled at that; a sad, happy, lopsided grin for all the things that had gone wrong between us, for all the things that had gone right. “You were right about another thing, though, Lay. You are my Rosebud. But not in the way you think. I’m not using you to try and get back to the last time my life was innocent and wonderful. Because you were a part of that, no doubt—a huge part of it—but only because I loved you then. And I love you now. You, not the slice of life you represent. I knew it that first day I saw you sitting in that desk in Mrs. Mason’s, trying not to look at me while I introduced myself to the class, and I never stopped. It’s always been you and me, Lay, and I think you know that; or you would, if you’d get your head out of your ass long enough to realize it. You know it’s true. I’m trying to get back to you. Hell, I just flew clear across the country just to tell you this in person. I’d like to think I’m gonna get some credit for it.”

  I stood there staring into the pleading eyes of that incredible man, the tears streaming down my face. Aside from that whole ‘head in my ass’ thing, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever said to me.

  That was, until the next thing he said to me.

  He slipped a hand around the back of my neck, holding my teary eyes fixed to his. “You were my first love, babe. I want you to be my last.”

  I threw my arms around his shoulders, just bawling like a big sap into his neck. “I know you love me, Chester. I love you, too. More than anything.” I kissed him then, my heart positively overflowing for the awe-inspiring man within my grasp. His arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me to him, crushing me against his length. I pulled back, looked right into those gorgeous blue eyes and saw the truth I’d always known:

  “I’m not me without you.”

  JULY 2006

  Chapter 31

  THE WEDDING DATE

  I was standing there, in my blush-colored gown, staring at the sliver of glass in the door of my church, checking out my reflection. My makeup… was perfect. My hair… was cooperating for once. Over the past year, I’d learned that that’s all it took to look good: Lots of money to hire professionals.

  The wedding ceremony was about to start, so I took my place at the back of the aisle. I looked to the front of the church and saw Bruce, so handsome in his tux, and shifted my gaze over to my father… standing at the altar. I peeked over my shoulder to find Sylvia just beaming gorgeously and looking as beautiful and happy as ever. Dad and she were finally making this thing official.

  The music started, and I counted ten Mississippis before starting down the aisle. It wasn’t difficult to keep a smile plastered on my face during my walk, but once I spotted Trip in the pews, I’m sure I looked like a complete doofus with my uncontrollable grin. Then again, he was smiling at me like I was the only person in the room.

  Sitting next to him were Lisa, Pickford, and all three kids. The twins were getting ready to start Kindergarten in the fall, and I made Lisa promise me she’d always send them to public school. Where does the time go? I felt like it was only yesterday when we were in school, and now my childhood best friend was getting ready for her kids to start. Before we know it, those two will be in high school, living it up as hard as we did back in the day.

  Lisa grabbed the baby’s chubby fist and waved it at me as I walked past. Allison was just as beautiful as her big sister.

  And her mother.

  I said a quick prayer that all her children would be lucky enough in their lives to find a best friend as amazing as mine.

  * * *

  The reception was at the country club one town over. We were blessed with a perfect day—sunny and breezy—affording us the opportunity to take advantage of the outdoor party area.

  By the time we made our way inside to the ballroom, we were stuffed from the endless fare of the cocktail hour, and still had a whole sit-down dinner to look forward to.

  I grabbed Trip out of his chair and pulled him onto the dance floor, figuring we could work off some of that food before Round Two of the feeding frenzy.

  Plus, I just wanted to dance with him.

  The floor was packed with the people I loved most in my life. Dad and Sylvia were dancing nearby, and next to them were Mr. and Mrs. DeSanto. Bruce and his new girlfriend were swaying to beat the band, Pickford was twirling Julia around in his arms, and Lisa had partnered with Caleb. Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Conrad decided to join in, and my cousins were there, too, along with a bunch of other family and friends that we didn’t get to see too often.

  Aunt Eleanor and I had a pretty big talk one day about my encounter with her sister. Well, I guess I did most of the talking. Aunt El spent most of our conversation with a sad smile glued to her face,
tears brimming in her eyes as she squeezed my fingers off. I almost got the impression that she was more relieved to hear about my closure on the situation, rather than revel in the peace I’d hoped to bring her. Between Bruce’s shoulder shrug, my father’s non-reaction, and Aunt Eleanor’s happy tears, I realized I was the only one out of the four of us who hadn’t already let my mother go years before.

  The wedding wasn’t the first time my cousins had been back in the same room as Trip. A few months after The Tree, I’d brought him to my dad and Sylvia’s engagement party. I’d given Stephen the heads up, but I was still worried about how the meeting was going to go down. My cousin had practically arrested Trip a few years back, and had expressed some initial concerns when he heard we were back together. We all had a long talk before dinner, and Trip and he had since found a way to make nice. I wanted any lingering awkwardness from that incident to be settled long before the wedding, and mercifully, it had been.

  Because there I was, dancing with him once again.

  He was spinning me around, crooning along to “Chances Are” as he did so.

  He stopped singing to smirk out, “Hey babe? This place is no rooftop, but I guess we can cut one hell of a rug anywhere, huh.”

  He pulled my waist in tightly against his side and dipped me backwards over his arm, planting a smiling kiss against my breastbone. I smacked his arm until he straightened us back up and then playfully chastised him. “You smoothy. Still working the moves on me? Don’t you realize you already got me?”

  “Oh, I realize. I guess I just still can’t believe it.” He spun me out and back in again as I giggled, watching one his eyebrows raise comically. “Should I have kept my distance that night instead?”

  Every moment had led us here. Every second of our lives. Every beat of our hearts. The answer was a big, fat no.

  I pursed my lips to keep from smiling. “Hey Trip?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

  He grinned wickedly at that, pulled me in close, and buried his face in my hair. I heard him take a huge inhale before he said, “God, Lay. What is that? Do you have any idea how many random shampoo bottles I’ve sniffed over the years, trying to find this scent? ‘Cause I know what kind of shampoo you use, and that’s not it. I’m beginning to think it’s just you.”

  My shoulders started shaking, cracking up at his admission. I’d spent the same years sniffing bars of soap. Even during that first trip out to his California house, I’d come to the same realization that he had: It was just him.

  It was always him.

  The wedding guests spent their time gawking at Trip all evening, despite the warning we put out to the family not to treat him like a sideshow freak. Thank God for my cousins. They took shifts running interference for all the curious rubberneckers intent on bugging him all night.

  Not that I couldn’t deal with it or anything. I’m kinda used to it by now. After all, that part of him is just make-believe. The part that’s all mine is what’s real.

  After all that we’d been through—all the laughs and the heartache and the mistakes—the reality was that we were who we were. Not perfect. Just perfect together. More importantly, while the future wasn’t mapped out, we at least had the knowledge that we’d always be together through it. The words spoken at our high school graduation came back to me: We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

  Whatever it was, I knew it was going to be great.

  NOVEMBER 2006

  EPILOGUE

  Trip bought my old apartment building in the village.

  The plan is to rent out the other eight units, but keep the entire top floor for ourselves. I’d originally wanted to knock down all the walls on the fourth floor, but Trip wouldn’t hear of it. He’s making me leave my old apartment exactly as it was when I lived in it. So, I have to content myself with remodeling the other three units on that floor into a penthouse suite instead. I’m not complaining. The plans my father and Jack have drawn up are beautiful. Trip and I spend most of our time in Jersey anyway, but it’ll be nice to have a space in the city to hide out when we’re not at the TRU, or when Lisa and Pick or any of our other friends want a place to crash for the night. As with our California home, we plan on doing a lot of entertaining there.

  My downstairs neighbor Angelo passed away, and his son found three letters addressed to me from way back in ninety-four. Trip had written the wrong apartment number on the envelopes and they’d been sent to Angelo, who never bothered to give them to me. One day during the demolition, Anthony showed up and just handed them over, apologizing and explaining what had happened. Trip put down the sledgehammer and the two of us sat right there on the floor amidst the rubble to read them. I won’t bore you with the details contained within those letters—most of what he’d written had been about his daily life out in Los Angeles; auditioning, playing hockey, etc.—but there’s a part of that first one I think that’s worth sharing:

  It started off as all the others, telling me about the latest dramas taking place in his seedy apartment building (but hey, it’s near the beach), talking about his latest audition (I don’t know. I don’t think I got the part. Tawny Everett was there doing the readings, though. Right there in the room! She called me “cute”. It was so freaking awesome!), and mentioning how he was dropping out of school (It’s not why I’m here anyway. How’s the new apartment?)

  But then, a few paragraphs down:

  It’s hard out here. It’s lonely. It’s fake. I’m thinking of packing it in and coming home.

  Will you be there if I do? You’ve only got this last year of school and I thought maybe we could make some plans. I miss you like crazy and I just want to come home to you.

  You’re my home, Lay-Lay.

  And yeah. He was right. If I had read that back when I was twenty-one, I would’ve been scared half to death.

  But I would have taken him up on his offer. I would have welcomed him back into my life with open arms.

  And then where would we be? Would we have torn each other apart, so young and so clueless, or would we have built each other up? Would I be writing? Would Trip really have given up acting? Would he have grown to resent me because he did?

  I could ask myself those questions until my head hurt.

  Thankfully, I’m not tasked with having to find out the answers. Somewhere in a parallel universe, Trip and I are miserable together. Just not in this one.

  Along with the apartment building, Trip bought his old house in Norman from his mother, and she bought a new one out in Malibu to replace it. I never thought in a million years when I was standing in that foyer back in ‘91 that someday it would be my house. The demons of that first night have been exorcised, triumph over my first memory of the place. It’s a beautiful home, and we shared our first kiss right out there in the driveway, confessed our love properly for the first time right there in his old bedroom. It’s the good memories my mind keeps alive.

  I suppose it helps that we christened every room within the first two weeks, however.

  A few days after we’d moved in, Trip replaced the destroyed portrait of his father, hanging it in the same spot in the hallway where it once was. I still work on him from time to time—unobtrusively, nowadays—trying to help him heal his conflicted feelings about his old man. We’re making progress. But for now, the little things let me see that he’s learning to forgive. He doesn’t need to say the words.

  I set up my office on the third floor, in a room whose window can see the hiking trails out in the woods. Hidden from the trees, underneath the boughs, is our clearing. The place where we’d spent one amazing night in a shabby, turquoise tent; the place where I found out Trip was in love with me. Tucked in a drawer of my desk is a stack of letters and cards he and I had written each other over the years, reunited at last, and tied up with a bow, as if they were a gift. They are. Framed on the wall—in spite of my too-cool boyfriend’s protests—is the first letter Trip ever wrote me, his Mi
nd Ramble. He has some reservations about his sappiness being put on display, but I had a promise to keep to myself.

  My fiction novel, “The Last Act” is coming out this winter, but my Trip memoir was released a few months ago. It’s doing well. Trip was finally able to get on board with Fields as the publisher, once he realized that aside from the random call relayed through my agent, I didn’t need to have much contact with the guy. Devin’s book-publishing branch had pretty much cornered the market on celebrity tell-alls and was the most logical house to ensure it would be marketed with the proper enthusiasm. His magazine, however, is still spewing out the same old celebrity gossip, and reporting on the latest “news” with their usual brand of cheese. Their cover story last month was about Ella Perez having a love child with Sasquatch or something. I don’t know. I don’t really pay much attention to those things these days.

  Case in point: Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.

  I’m working on my next novel. It’s a story about a twenty-six-year-old writer in New York City who’s trying to break into a journalism career when her ex-boyfriend suddenly pops back into her life.

  I just wonder where all these book ideas could possibly come from.

  I’ve written under some different pen names, but most of the time, I write as L.P. Warren. The P stands for Prudence, which, God help me, is my middle name. Aside from Clapton and Springsteen, my mom was a pretty big Beatle fan, too. I make a modest living from being a writer, and that, amongst other things, keeps me happy.

  I may not be at the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List—yet—but I love what I do, and I’m pretty sure that’s more important. No matter what stories I write, however, I kind of hold a special place in my heart for that memoir. I hear some other people do, too.